I think it’s funny you chose a cheetah print notebook with a hot pink stripe down the middle. On the cover, you wrote your name. Harry. Your lines and curves in each letter are crooked, shaky like my hands as I flip it open and thumb through the pages. Your rich brown thoughts poured on each page, stained by the tobacco on your fingers. I imagine you, sitting on the left end of the couch, journal teetering on the rounded arm, a Pilot G2 in hand. Names, a doctor’s phone number, the bank’s phone number, medicines you were taking, why you were taking them, dreams you had—all written in slanted black ink on cream pages. I hold a portal to your thoughts in my hands and every time, with no ounce of hesitation, I jump in.